I once blogged that thou shalt not blog on a Sunday. I’ve more or less stuck to this over the years, but I’ve had a new idea. I think Sunday posts should, sometimes at least, be poetry. Here’s one from my futurist friend Oliver, in Sydney.

MY WORKING WEEK

Every day is a Sunday
The shape of my working week gone
School bells are no longer ringing
No business deals to be done
The babies are now grandchildren
Past lovers are pickled in brine
Parents slide into that grey sea
I’m the oldest ship of the line

All this I can bear with good grace
Cupping my hands around your face
Telling me all I need to know
My heart fibrillates blood’s flow
My new week anchored at the bay –
Every day is a Sunday

OLIVER FREEMAN NOVEMBER 5